Darkness Falls
by NarusseRussandol
Summary: The Quest has failed. The remaining fellowship members are taken captive or killed. Enslaved in Mordor, Aragorn meets someone he never expected to see again. Meanwhile, in Minas Tirith, it is up to Faramir to lead the remaining people of Arda in one last, desperate stand. Very AU.
1. The End of All Things

_Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings, its characters, and lands are owned by Tolkein Estates and New Line Cinemas. This story was written for my own enjoyment, not for profit._

_Summary: The Quest has failed. The remaining fellowship members are taken captive or killed. Enslaved in Mordor, Aragorn meets someone he never expected to see again. Meanwhile, in Minas Tirith, it is up to Faramir to lead the remaining people of Arda in one last, desperate stand. Very AU._

_**WARNINGS: Violence and strong angst. Canon character death. **__As all of my stories, contains no sex, slash, or strong language. __**Rated T.**_

Chapter One: The End of all Things

His eyes opened, very slowly. Where was he? What had happened to him? The world was dark and blurry, and he thought he could see flames. Pain coursed through his weak body as he raised himself onto his elbow.

"'E's awake!" a rough, orkish voice said. He shivered as their hands dragged him up from the ground, slamming his back against the wall. "Thought ye could stand against the might of the Uruk-hai, did ya?" the creature asked, spitting in his face.

He blinked his eyes, shuddering as the vile liquid ran down his face.

"Well, ye'll soon learn 'ow wrong you were!" The orcs laughed and began to beat him.

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"Throw it in, Mister Frodo!" Sam cried, desperately.

There was a strange, vagrant look in the ringbearer's pale blue eyes. It disturbed his friend. Could Frodo have...? No, that was impossible.

But the hobbit's worst suspicions were confirmed when Frodo said, "The Ring is mine." He broke the chain, bringing the golden circlet to his finger, a strange, menacing gleam in his eyes.

"No!" Sam cried, but his voice was drowned out by the screeching of the Nazgul. The great fell beast flew down, and he covered his ears as its hideous voice shrieked again.

Frodo was focused on nothing but the Ring. Closer and closer it moved to his finger. And then it happened.

Sam forced himself not to watch as the wraith raised its weapon, and he closed his eyes with a cry of dismay. He heard it descend through the air and collide with something. Then Frodo screamed in agony.

He opened his eyes again just in time to see Frodo, his hand cut from his body, hurtle backwards into the fires of Orodruin.

The last thing he saw and felt was a feeling of terrible dread as the Nazgul took the Ring.

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Aragorn ducked an orc blade, dispatching his attacker. But this battle was quite hopeless. There were so many orcs, so few men. It was only to buy Frodo a little time, perhaps just enough to enable him to complete the quest. His friends fought beside him, and this fact gave him the strength to carry on.

When the Nazgul left, he felt relief, but only for a moment, as he watched them fly above Mordor. There could be only one thing that drew them away.

His momentary distraction enabled him to be knocked aside by his enemy's blade, knocked cold on the ground.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a troll's foot looming above him. It stepped down on him, crushing his chest. He struggled to breathe, ready to give up.

Then he heard Legolas' voice. He looked up and saw the others there. Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Pippin, and Eomer. He took out his dagger and stabbed the troll's foot viciously.

When the pressure was lifted, Aragorn sighed in relief and began to rise to his feet. But when he opened his eyes, he stopped, his blood running cold. There, before him, stood a tall, evil form in black armor. The One Ring was on his finger. "Sauron..." He breathed, in dread. Their diversion had done nothing.

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Faramir and Eowyn stood together in Minas Tirith. They looked out over the fields helplessly, wishing that they could be fighting alongside the others. But that was not to be. They were not yet fully healed from their wounds.

Faramir took her hand in his. "They will return," he said, as much to convince himself as to convince her of it, "The halflings' Quest will succeed. And Middle Earth will be saved."

She looked at him. "If only I could be sure," she replied.

They stayed there in silence for a while, wishing they could know what was happening. Suddenly, the darkness around the city fell, and grew greater than ever before. The steward and the shieldmaiden looked upward simultaneously, in fear and dread.

"They have failed..." Faramir breathed, "No. It is not possible."

Merry Brandybuck came out to them, breathing hard. "Lord Faramir, Eowyn," he gasped, "Something terrible has just happened!"

Faramir turned to him, his eyes still staring at nothing in particular. He could think of no way to put it more nicely to the halfling. "The Quest has failed," he whispered, "The Ring has returned to its master." His eyes glistening and his face pale, he added, "And, more than likely, Frodo and Samwise are dead."

"Dead?" asked Merry in dismay, "It is not possible!" He took to staring off the balcony with them. "It is not true..."

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Aragorn was dragged roughly to his feet. "If you surrender now," Sauron rumbled, "I may have a little mercy on you. And grant you a quick death. Simply call your army off. It is futile anyway."

Aragorn felt his bravery melt. He could be killed at this very moment. The one who touched him was the embodiment of evil itself. But he would not back down. "No," he said, as loudly as he dared, "Never."

"Have it your way then, Heir of Isildur," the Dark Lord scoffed, throwing Aragorn down roughly.

That was all that Aragorn remembered of the horrible day. His head struck a rock and he lost consciousness.

There was no hope left for Arda.

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_To be Continued..._

_A/N: This is a random idea I had. At a random time. I'm not sure how good it is, but I think it may be different. There are not many Sauron-gets-the-ring stories out there, so I decided I'd write one. This will be VERY AU. In more ways than just the obvious. You'll see as it unfolds..._

_Please review! Constructive criticism please, no flames._

_I hope you enjoy it! To all angst-lovers, this will be VERY angsty._

_I have NOT abandoned 'A Tale of Two Rangers.' Or 'In His Stead,' for that matter, though I've been having significant writers block on the latter. Chapter Ten of A Tale of Two Rangers should be up soon._

_~Luthien_


	2. A Dark Sunrise

_Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters, and lands, are the property of Tolkein Estates and New Line Cinemas. This story was written for my enjoyment and the enjoyment of others, not for profit._

Chapter Two: A Dark Sunrise

The Steward watched the darkness emanating from the east with dread. So it was true. The Quest had failed. His heart sank. He was the last one to have seen the Ringbearer and his friend before they crossed into the Dark Land. He felt that he could have helped this somehow, though in his heart, he knew that he could not.

He shuddered. Dawn had come, but it was only darker than the night before. Mordor's darkness was fast falling over Arda. He turned as he felt Eowyn's touch on his shoulder.

"Have you slept at all?" she asked, her grey eyes bright with worry.

Faramir shook his head. "No," he said, "How can I, when the fate of Middle-Earth has been decided for the worst?" He sat down in a chair, lowering his head as his raven hair fell down and covered his face.

Eowyn could offer him no comfort. "I understand," she said, her own voice taut with anxiety, "There is little we can do." She dared not say _nothing._ Her mind drifted away to the Black Gates, and she wondered if her brother had, by some slim chance, survived. Or Aragorn, for that matter. She knew she owed the Heir her life.

Faramir stood back up. "It is only a matter of time," he said. His face was drawn and his voice pained. "Until we too are overcome." His mind drifted again to his brother, who had been killed brutally. Perhaps it was better for Boromir than for him now. At least Boromir would not have to be brought under the domain of the Dark Lord.

"We cannot give up so easily," Eowyn replied, "There may be few of us left, but we can still join together and battle the dark forces of Mordor." Her expression hardened with determination.

Faramir managed a sad smile. "No, Eowyn," he told her, "The men of the Free Peoples have been mostly killed in the battles with the Dark Lord and his minions. There is none left to fight." He glanced at the sky again, wondering if it was, perhaps, still a few shades darker.

"I am not a man, yet I killed his greatest servant," Eowyn retorted, "There are other women like me, I am sure. And the North is all but untouched by the Enemy." She turned him towards her.

Faramir looked her in the eye. "You are right, Eowyn," he said, "We must not give up all hope yet. We must gather the Free Peoples who will come to join us before the storm comes. We must stand and fight for this city until the last. But not only this city. We must fight for all of Arda." He turned back to look over the Pelennor.

Eowyn held his hands between hers. _For all of Arda,_ she thought, _And for those who have already been lost._

0o0o0o0

"Get up!" A gruff voice accompanied a sharp kick in Aragorn's back. He rubbed his eyes groggily, unsure of exactly what had happened, and why he was being kicked.

When he was dragged to his feet by two orcs, the memory of the Battle at the Black Gates flooded back to him. And the hopelessness. He wondered how Frodo and Sam had been killed, and shuddered, knowing that it would have been no easy death. Was he now going to his own death?

He didn't fight his captors, knowing that it was useless. The Enemy had regained his Ring. And this time, there would be no one to cut it from his hand. He would make sure of that.

Aragorn was dragged through the black-and-red halls of Barad-Dur to a room lined with various torture devices. He was shoved roughly against the wall, which seemed to be coated with some type of poison, for it burned his skin, and held there. The door opened, and the Dark Lord strode in.

"Welcome, Isildur's heir," he spoke, and his voice made Aragorn shudder. It was pure evil embodied in words, and the hatred for everyone and everything so evident. "It is so nice to meet you at last, in these circumstances."

Aragorn did not reply, and he did not lower his eyes. Though Sauron's hatred of him, and the way he spoke to him, made him want to cringe and cower and beg for mercy, he would not do that. He stood firm.

Sauron laughed, a horrible, thundering sound that made Aragorn even more afraid than he already was. "So, you are going to play the courageous one with me, are you?" he said, "Well, that has been done before. And there are none left to tell the tale. If you simply tell me all that I would know, I will let you live, either that, or kill you swiftly. If you do not, you will be tortured until you do, then killed, slowly, and painfully. Make your choice, Heir of Isildur; time is running out."

_Time is running out indeed, Sauron,_ Aragorn thought, _For the Free Peoples of Arda, it already has._ He had never felt so utterly hopeless. But he would not back down now. "I will tell you nothing," he replied, keeping his voice calm and steady, "Nothing that would endanger those left behind."

Sauron laughed again. "They will all fall," he said, "So why not ease their pain, make it quicker for them?"

Aragorn had to admit that it was a convincing argument. However, he was not going to submit to Sauron's every whim, though he die trying not to. "I will not tell," he repeated, in the same monotone as before.

Sauron's red eyes glared at him, "You will," he persisted, his voice oozing with hatred and menace.

Aragorn, though he knew not what terrible consequences he would receive for doing it, shook his head, slowly and decisively.

The Dark Lord towered over him, "Then I will break you to my will!" He made a hand gesture, and Aragorn was hurled to the floor.

The heir felt a sickening wave of nausea as his head hit the stone floor. Struggling to his feet in one last act of defiance, he met the Enemy's eyes, forcing himself to make eye contact. "I will die first."

Then Sauron's minions laid into him, kicking him, punching him, and beating him with all manner of things. But Aragorn clenched his jaw tightly through the whole ordeal, and did not utter a cry of agony, much to the anger of the Dark Lord, and slipped into unconsciouness.

"The armies of Mordor will come," Faramir listened attentively to his uncle, who currently commanded the city, speak, "Now that the Enemy has his weapon back, there is little hope that they will not conquer." Imrahil's eyes travelled over the council members there in Minas Tirith. "But we cannot lose that hope," his gaze rested on his convalescent nephew, who met his eyes.

Faramir nodded, as did most of the others. A few shook their heads, thinking that they should surrender now and beg for mercy. One of them made the mistake of voicing that idea.

Faramir stood angrily. "Mercy?" he retorted, "You ask the Enemy for mercy, and he'll spare your life- for torment and slavery." He met Imrahil's gaze again, and his uncle nodded in agreement. "The Enemy has no mercy," he said, a note of menace in his voice, trying to convince the council that the only way to expect a merciful death was to fight and be slain in battle. "There are some left here in Minas Tirith, not many, but enough to hold out for a while. I have taken it upon myself to send out messengers to the other lands, that they may come and aid us in our struggle against the Enemy. Perhaps they will arrive in time."

"The other lands?" one of the council members stood and confronted Faramir. "What other lands? Rohan has been emptied. The only Rohirrim left are here. The Haradhrim and the Dunlendings have sided with the enemy. Who then will come?"

The others, including Imrahil, turned questioning glances on the Steward. "I have sent messages to the Elven Kingdoms," Faramir replied, "There was once an alliance between men and elves. Why can there not be another one? If I recall correctly, which I believe I do, that Last Alliance defeated Sauron."

"Yes, but only for a time," the man, whom Faramir recognized as the Lord of Lossarnach, retorted, "And I believe that Sauron was only defeated by Isildur, when he cut the Ring from the Dark Lord's hand. Are you to be the one who does that this time, Faramir, son of Denethor? You think too highly of yourself, Lord Steward."

"That is enough!" Imrahil fixed the lord with a hard stare. "We will hold out against the enemy as long as we can. Once I and my nephew are dead, _then_ you are free to beg for mercy if you wish." His look was one that said that the argument was finished.

The Lord of Lossarnach huffed, but said no more, and sat down. Faramir soon also took his seat.

By the end of the council meeting, Imrahil was sure that they were all agreed. They would fight for as long as they possibly could. They would not surrender, for if they did, Sauron would have won. But if they died fighting him, then he would have failed. The Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth shared a knowing glance, and Imrahil knew that Faramir felt the same way.

If only there was a way for them to survive this.

_To be continued._

_Author's note: Nothing much to say about this chapter. Except it's hard to write Sauron. _

_Please Review, and tell me how I can improve!_

_Oh, and Chapter Ten of 'A Tale of Two Rangers' will be up very, very, soon. _

_~Luthien_

_UPDATE: 7/7/2014 Have fixed a few spelling and Canon errors, with much thanks to Rashka the Demon for pointing them out. Thank you so much!_


	3. Friends in Dark Times

_Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters, and lands, are the property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinemas. This story was written for my enjoyment and the enjoyment of others, not for profit._

_**WARNINGS: **__Mention of torture, memories of war. __**RATED K+.**_

Chapter Three- Friends in Dark Times

Aragorn lay face down in his cell. His back bled from the places that his skin had been torn, and he was battered and bruised everywhere. He dared not move, nor even open his eyes, for he knew that if his captors knew he was awake, he would be beaten again. And he was quite willing to lie there, for any move he possibly could make would hurt him. His tormentors made sure of that.

But as time wore on, the wounds began to heal, and he could no longer be still. First he moved a little, then more, and realized that he was alone. No one was there to torment him. At this fact, he rejoiced. He managed to pull himself up to his knees, wincing at the pain in his aching muscles.

He had held strong. Sauron had not broken him. His body, yes, but not his spirit. Not yet.

_And not ever_, he thought, determinedly. Yes, there was nothing to fight for, but something told the Heir of Isildur to keep fighting. He had to, he couldn't give in. In the darkness of his cell, he realized that there was still hope. Somewhere, someone would need strength to bring Sauron down at last. And Aragorn would stay strong for them, whoever they would be.

0o0o0o0

Time passed and Aragorn remained there, seeing and hearing no one. He did not know how long he was there without food, and only a small puddle in the cell for water, but it seemed to him that an age had passed.

His wounds had healed up as well as they could without tending, but that was not very well. He took to staring at the wall, or counting the cracks in the ceiling.

But he was alert. There was some reason that he had been placed in solitary confinement. Most likely, Sauron was trying to catch him off guard somehow. And so he resolved not to allow that to happen. He slept little, and always with one eye open, though he was barely strong enough to keep it so.

Eventually, though the loneliness of his situation had almost overcome him. He found himself wishing for any living thing even the Dark Lord, to come in. It felt as if he were the only being in the world. As if it were only he that existed, and no others.

He longed for Arwen, and it was only her face in his memory that kept him alive. When he slept, he dreamt of her, and of Rivendell. A pang shot through his heart as he knew that Rivendell would soon be no more.

Then, he thought of Faramir. Aragorn had barely known the younger brother of Boromir. And Faramir had never seen him in his life that he could remember. Yet he had hailed Aragorn as his king upon awakening from his fevered slumber.

_I failed you, Faramir,_ he thought. _I am not the King you thought I was. I failed._

"Yes, you did," came a deep, menacing voice from behind him, "You failed everyone."

0o0o0o0

_I am a coward_.

The Rohir cursed himself over and over again.

_I am a coward. I left him there. I left all of them. For what? My life? The life of my men?_

He sat easily in the saddle of his horse, Firefoot, as he and his riders rode south toward Minas Tirith. The one possible safe haven.

_I abandoned my sword brother._

He would have slammed a fist down had he been seated at a table, yet he contented himself with simply grimacing beneath his helm.

"Eomer King," a rider spoke beside him, but Eomer barely noticed. The man repeated his name again, more urgently this time, and the Rohir turned to him.

"Yes?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Are you well, my King?" the man asked, now tentative.

Eomer shook his head. "No, Eofal. I am not. I am far from well. When we retreated from the battle, I left behind my sword-brother, Aragorn." He shook his head. "I will never forgive myself for it."

Eofal turned away. "None of us are alright after that battle," he said, "But why did we retreat?"

"I do not know." This was what puzzled Eomer most. It had seemed that the fire had simply left his blood, and the lust for battle with it. And replacing it was a desperate need to get back to Minas Tirith. To his sister.

"My lord," came another Rider's voice, "We near the city."

Eomer looked up to see that they had reached the Pelennor Fields. The plain was yet littered with bodies and the ruins of Mordor's siege machines. That battle had been won. Eomer sighed. If only yesterday's battle could have been the same. But, no. The Enemy had come into his power.

Eomer sighed as he looked out over the field. He could see the bodies of many of the Men of Rohan and Gondor as well as those of the Enemy's servants.

_All of this, for nothing._

0o0o0o0

"My lord!" came a messenger's cry. Faramir stood, turning and opening the door to his study. He had been drawing plans for battle and for defence for days.

"Yes, Bergil?" he asked.

The boy seemed excited, and a bit pleased. "Lord Faramir, the Riders of Rohan approach. With Eomer, King at their head."

Eowyn stood abruptly. "Eomer? Are you sure?" she asked, her eyes widening at the prospect that her brother had returned.

Bergil, who was out of breath, nodded. "Yes, my lady," he gasped, "Eomer, King of Rohan and no other leads the Rohirrim."

Faramir, Eowyn, and Imrahil stood, following the boy out.

"Were there any of Gondor's riders with him?" Faramir asked, "Lord Elessar, or Peregrin? Or Mithrandir?"

"Not that the sentries could see," Bergil replied, "They saw only Rohirrim."

_Then they have perished,_ Faramir thought, sighing. "Nevertheless, Eomer is welcome here. Be sure that the gates are open for him. That is, the few gates that are not broken to pieces."

Bergil nodded, and ran off, to alert the gate guards.

Eowyn and Faramir followed at a slower pace. Eowyn was ecstatic to see her brother safe again, and Faramir needed to know exactly what had happened at the Morannon.

The gate was opened, and the ragged, disheartened band of Rohirrim rode through the gates, several of the horses limping, and their riders wounded and despairing.

Eowyn ran to Eomer, catching him and holding him tightly as he dismounted.

"My brother," she sobbed in relief. "You yet live."

Eomer embraced her. "As do you. I am glad that I can see you again."

When they released each other, Eowyn brought Eomer over to Faramir.

"I do not believe you have met Gondor's new Steward, Lord Faramir?" she asked, giving Faramir a bow.

Faramir shook his head. "I do not recall meeting you, my lord King," he bowed low.

Eomer gripped his shoulder and raised him up. "This is not a time for homage, Steward Faramir," he said.

Faramir nodded. "What tidings bring you of the battle, my lord?" he asked.

Eomer sighed. "We have lost. The Enemy has regained his Ring." He closed his eyes. "Aragorn is lost."

Faramir bowed his head, grimacing. So it was true, what he knew to be so. "It is regrettable," he said, "That this should happen."

Eomer gripped Faramir's shoulder on a sudden impulse.

"Hope still remains. We may yet stand against the Enemy. We may yet win this war. Gondor and Rohan are not defeated yet."

Faramir looked up, determination in his eyes. "No. I would die first than submit to the Enemy."

0o0o0o0

_To Be Continued..._

_A/N: At last. Another chapter. _

_Should be getting more soon. I've made a few minor corrections to the previous chapter, thanks to Rashka the Demon for pointing them out._

_I can't remember all of the reviews, so I'll do responses later._


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